a wolf angel is not a good angel

Dear writers and producers,

I have been watching your show since the beginning, and I have to say, I am close to quitting. Please consider these issues:

1. There is nothing wrong with having more than one strong woman at a time. When Ana-Lucia came, you didn’t need to switch Kate over to being stupid and useless. You can still change her back, even though Juliet is also a strong woman. Truly!
2. Enough blonde women. I can’t keep them apart anymore. I like that you killed one off immediately — though you can start killing guys again now, because your show is not so heavy on the balanced — but now consider: red-haired, auburn, brunette or even more grey or white-haired people, since we don’t see Rousseau much. Or — shhh — non-whites.
3. Enough Jack. Jack is a stupid jerk. His acting is not so stellar, either. More Sayid, Sun and Jin, please. Stick with the Henry Gale, too.
4. Re-learn cliffhangers. An episode which ends “Good work, Juliet”/”Thank you [Henry Gale]”, is not cliffhangery if nothing happens. Equally, a “cooperate in the future, and we’ll show you more baseball games” is not cliffhangery. That said, the last episode — well-acted though it may be — saved itself only because of the Red Sox comments at the end.
5. Stop regressing on the characters! If they’ve learned and grown in season 2, you do not need to bring them to S1E01 again at the beginning of season 3.

I am willing to keep watching for the “I really want to know” factor, but not much longer, unless you make it clear that there is something to know and that you’re not just making it up as you go along. (Or that you’ve quit doing that and are aiming somewhere now.)

Thank you.

Sincerely,

wolfa

Also, my sleep schedule is totally fucked again. I did sleep really really well last night, which was lovely, so I guess tonight it’s off.

I’m giving her the pills, which she seems to continue to despise. But needs must, etc. I’m also making her baby food, which she eats, in small doses. She’s supposed to have 30 ml a day (though of the liquidy stuff that I can forcefeed her), and I’ve seen her eat and there is no way she gets anything near that. (I wonder if Baby Blue needs a kitten.) So I am forcing some other stuff in her, but I have a 3ml dropper, which means that I am supposed to forcefeed her ten times a day, so more or less hourly while I’m home. Today I did it 3.5 times, and I hope that she ate enough calories (not through nursing, cause she seems unable to find her nipple anymore). She’s all runty (not growing like the others) and ribby (hidden by her long fur, but still) and just insufficiently playful. Her fur is soft and shiny, and her eyes are bright and her nose is cold, and I hope that the pills and the extra food (which all the cats love — rice pablum and baby chicken food, sure, why not, smells much better than cat food) will do enough. Poor baby.

But, as you see, this means she needs a name.

So it’s Name That Foster Kitten day! She’s a dark tabby, mostly solid on the body, long hair, slightly flat face, indistinct eye colour.

(Photos taken by someone else.)

My favourite of the little kittens was sick, and I took her to the vet today. She has what Dr Google said, coccidia, which means mostly that she has diarrhea. So she’s a little less active, a little less big — and a little at risk, because diarrhea, for a small little thing like her, is dangerous. (As it is for people, too. This is also something that can infect the other kittens, but will not infect adult cats with proper immune systems.) I’m giving her some sort of pill (she has LOTS of strength to fight that, mostly biting and clawing me and squirming out of the towel she was held in), but I did not have time to go grocery shopping for rice pablum and baby food for her today — tomorrow! first thing! — and so I am hoping she will be ok for another couple of hours, because I’m not entirely sure she’s eating, and mama cat refuses to nurse the kittens anymore. (Which I didn’t know until recently.) She didn’t want a kitty treat. I’ll leave out some wet cat food, though I doubt she’ll go for it. (Nor am I sure it’s a brilliant move, but I *am* sure that her not eating is bad — update: she’s eating the wet cat food, which makes me relieved. I even have a dropper to force feed her if need be.)

Alas, this photo is not one I took.

The reason I made an apple cake? (I made it again later, with the apples this time.)

Apple picking! Down near the NY border.

(more…)

I read books about depression — but past tense, now. The last one I read was The Noonday Demon, on Dr. B’s recommendation. And it was very good, I’ve no argument with the book.

My argument is with me — when I read these books, I say, oh, oh I’m not really depressed, not like the people who cannot get out of bed for weeks on end. I’m just stupid or lazy or whatever it is, but no, it cannot be actual depression, it’s so much less serious than what anyone else describes. I mean, I’m always functional. (And who could ever aspire to more than functional, right?) And part of me knows this is just another symptom, and a much larger part of me thinks that I am being realistic here, that it is just me pretending something for reasons I can’t quite explain, that I’m crazy, but not in the actual problem way, in the “I’m a bad person” sense.

Sometimes I’m really not sure. It’s normal, of course: I’m not a doctor, how could I really know what diagnosis it is, it’s not a perfect science. So I don’t know, and then things come and go, I feel better for a while or worse for a while when everything is slow, inching through a river of mud against the current. And then I feel better again, and I can’t exactly remember what it’s like in the other state. But I know I am never quite at the level of unable to get off the floor (this is part because if I were then I would be found out, and where would my obsessive secrecy be then?). And those are the stories that are Real Depression.

Are there histories of depression written by women, about women? Other than Prozac Nation and Girl, Interrupted.

I don’t know what I want to know here. Do I want to be told it’s all in my head? (It is, obviously, in either sense.) I sometimes even wonder if this isn’t secretly what I want, because if I didn’t, then — well, then I don’t know. Which is the problem all over again: I don’t know what is true and what isn’t.

Making an apple cake with the last of the eggs and not putting in your peeled, sliced apples.

in the Plateau.

The mother is very friendly, purrful, and seems to be letting Matilda be alpha cat. The kittens — still an undifferentiated mass of fuzz — are stumbly when they walk, squeaky instead of meowy, and some of them are happy to be petted.

Litter box is going to be fun. (They’re all trained, thankfully.)